Poet's Notes: Sitting
alone in the dark in the cold in the corner writing verses that may never see
the light, I have nothing but that little light conjured in characters invented
to call us forth to remind us of a currency so precious it cannot be traded
cannot be bought cannot be repaid. In those invented hours between now and
never, between the cracks in humanity, nature, and chess, shimmering sparks
float on the edges of sight, light of promise, light burning up lifetimes
instantaneously. Relativity. Only in these moments that last full eternities,
blinking out in one instant after another, can we begin to see clearly, sitting
alone in the dark in the cold in the corner, writing explosive poetry.

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